Farch. This is what a teacher friend of mine named February and March—Farch. It’s the time of year here in the upper Midwest when clean snow gives way to mud, the robin’s-egg blue sky turns gray, and even if it looks like it could—should—be warm, one’s fingers still need to be covered with clumsy mittens. Farch is the perfect word for this time of year, because the word itself sounds like the misery it intends to invoke. Farch is old ground…stale energy…a candle about to die.